My dyspraxic difficulty in predicting where oncoming people – particularly cyclists – are heading is an accident waiting to happen. Last Thursday, it happened. Barely two minutes after work, I went to cross the road from one corner to the opposite one. An approaching cyclist on the road at 12 o clock* looked like he might be cycling past me. The sensation of forcefully hitting the ground confirmed that he had actually tried to turn the same corner that I was heading towards.
New bruise collection? Check. Bandaged foot? Check. I’d also like to thank the passer-by from the hospital who wouldn’t let me go until she was sure I didn’t need medical attention. Anyway, I did what most self-respecting women would do: cry a bit, take a bath, eat chocolate and complain to anyone listening.
And reminisce about mishaps gone by. Namely a near-identical incident at a holiday/retreat centre when I was six. I was playing outside, didn’t see the girl on a bike in time and consequently got flattened. My sister likes to think I was re-enacting that moment. I like to think it was foreshadowing what was to come 17 years later.
Another time, I went on a trip with the Brownies to a rollerblading arena. I fell down. I got back up and kept trying. I repeated this until I went face first and sank my teeth into my lip. Blood was spilled and a dislike of slippery surfaces was ignited.
Then there’s my bread-knife scar from nearly 10 years ago. I don’t know what sort of bread that knife was made for, but definitely not the sort that displays resistance to pressure. In fact, it skidded wildly and took a pound of flesh from my finger. Which had to be strapped to my other finger. I distinctly remember showing my sister the used dressing the next day, and her responding “you’ve had your period on it.” Brilliant.
Medical issues have demonstrated two things. One: I over-react to touch. Back in Year 9, what started as an irritated eye landed me at the doctor’s, then the optician, then the walk-in centre and finally the hospital’s eye department, where I was diagnosed with a simple but serious eye infection. I don’t know how the medics got the eye drops into me, but Mum had to pin me down, unable to move, and hold both my head and my eyelid. Eight times a day for at least a week.
Two: I under-react to pain. When I was 15, I found what looked like insect bites on my tummy. Three weeks later, I realised they may be infected, and went to the doctor. Following several ineffective antibiotics, I carried on as normal, until my parents got one look at my weepy, burning skin and took me to the walk-in centre. Turned out I had an extremely rare staphylococcal infection, was at risk of blood poisoning, and had been running a fever without realising. Yikes.
Yet somehow, I’m still alive. If I go a month without writing a blog post, you may rectify that statement. Until then, fingers crossed!
*Meaning he was directly ahead. Not to be interpreted as the whole thing happening at midnight.
Unwritten Grace writing 